Monday's Poetry is Sad Poetry

Grey, grey Monday
I wish it was Friday
No, more I wish it was Spring
In the sun we could sing
Now I sit slumped in a chair
Haven't even put a brush through my hair
Comfy pants and hoody
My bones feel like putty
The to-do list is long
Yet checking it off feels wrong
My bed beckons me back for just another hour
Yet I drag my but to work, Mondays are sour
I hope the clouds break to reveal the sun
Who knows it may prevoke me to go for a run
For now I sit and stare at the grey
And think of a much sunnier day.

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